


Cars and Kidnapping

by mariadperiad20



Series: Foray into B99 [33]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: BAMF Amy Santiago, Happy Ending, Hurt Jake Peralta, Hurt/Comfort, Jake Peralta Needs a Hug, Kidnapped Jake Peralta, Whump, dad!holt, trigger warning: car accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariadperiad20/pseuds/mariadperiad20
Summary: Jake turned, scrabbling for his radio - it having fallen onto the floor of the passenger seat from the impact. His hand had just wrapped around it when he heard the sound of the driver’s door opening.Jake jerked up, back of his arm and hand slicing open on a jagged piece of the insides of the car, pressing down on the transmission button. “Collision on Winston Street, suspect Tyler Gordon invo-” Jake’s words were cut off with a cry of pain as a hand grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down onto the steering wheel again.Request fic!
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Series: Foray into B99 [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320137
Comments: 60
Kudos: 338





	1. Chapter 1

Jake lost him.

Jake couldn’t hide his disappointment, the frustration heavy on his face. The perp in question - Tyler Gordon - had killed his wife’s sidepiece and dipped. He’d been put away previously, having committed some robberies, and when he’d left prison to find his wife getting freaky with another man… well. The team had tracked Gordon for a week to get to here, and… it all culminated in this. Him breaking down a door to an empty fucking apartment.

Jake signaled to the beat cops to do the sweep anyway - he knew the guy wasn’t here, but they still had to do the checks anyway. The place was clearly recenlty cleaned out, meaning Gordon had probably run. He turned, walking back into the hallway and ignoring the curious stares of other apartment residents.

Time to start questioning them if they’d seen Gordon. He doubted it, but hey, maybe Mlepclaynos would be around somewhere - the dude had a weird way of cropping up during these sorts of things.

That did pay off a bit, at least. An older man told Jake that he’d seen Gordon - or, rather, “that nice-looking blonde man with the weird glasses from that apartment” - leave in a hurry a few hours prior.

Well, that was a start at least. Jake trudged back outside disappointedly - he’d have preferred to _not_ spend another week looking for this guy.

Captain Holt was standing outside by the door, speaking to a woman in Russian.

“He’s not there.” Jake informed.

“Yes, Mrs. Lebedev was just informing me that the man matching Gordon’s image had left a few hours ago, carrying a duffel bag. It appears we are too late.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake said bitterly, “It looks like it’s back to the drawing board.”

“Peralta, while it is disappointing to not have Mr. Gordon under our custody, these situations do occur.” Holt leveled him with a steady gaze, “There is no shame in not succeeding.”

Jake grimaced. “That’s because you always succeed.”

“Be careful not to put me on a pedestal, Peralta.” Holt said, tone somehow even more serious than it normally was, “It will not end well.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake felt defensive, “It’s fine. I get it, back to work. Thanks for the pep talk, dad.”

“Certainly, Peralta.” Holt replied.

Jake cracked a grin, before he turned, walking back to his car - pausing for a moment as he thought he caught an odd glimpse of movement, but when he turned it was just a plastic bag, fluttering against the wall that it was caught on.

Classic New York. Absolutely filthy on a good day.

Jake got into his car, turning over the engine. He had to head back to the precinct, and let the team know that he had failed. He was sure Terry would be absolutely delighted by that - not like the case delays were messing with the squad’s numbers, or anything.

Jake drove back to the precinct, thoroughly irritated with the whole situation. He was tapping away on his steering wheel, listening to Backstreet, when a car swerved into his lane.

“Fuck-” Jake breathed, slamming on the brakes. The car moved back into its lane, and Jake let out a slow breath. Nerves alight from the situation, he felt on edge.

The car fell back beside him, and Jake cast the driver a glare - he couldn’t see very well, though, due to the tinted window, but it looked… huh.

Jake frowned, hand reaching for his radio. He wasn’t in a squad car, so there were no lights to signal or anything, but the guy seemed a bit familiar to the face he’d been staring at on a screen for the past week.

The car holding possibly-Gordon revved, and then was swerving towards Jake again.

Jake watched the passenger side of his car crumple in, the door turning inwards like a tin can. He could feel the reverberations through his car, could feel it being pushed off the road, but it felt like it was happening outside of him. All so slow and so fast at the same time. Then his tire blew, and Jake was losing control of the car.

Jake swerved as best he could, barely managing to avoid a telephone pole and instead crashing the car into an embankment on the side of the road. His head ached, having collided with the steering wheel, and everything was swaying slightly. Looking up, dazed, he saw the car pull up behind him, and Tyler Gordon step out. 

Fuck.

Jake turned, scrabbling for his radio - it having fallen onto the floor of the passenger seat from the impact. His hand had just wrapped around it when he heard the sound of the driver’s door opening.

Jake jerked up, back of his arm and hand slicing open on a jagged piece of the insides of the car, pressing down on the transmission button. “Collision on Winston Street, suspect Tyler Gordon invo-” Jake’s words were cut off with a cry of pain as a hand grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down onto the steering wheel again.

Jake barely felt the hand wrapping around his own, prying his fingers off - he tried to keep holding it, resolutely pressing down the transmission button, until the sound of a sickening _crack_ filled the air. Followed by someone screaming - oh, wait, that was him.

“Shut up,” Gordon snarled, and then Jake felt a pressure around his neck. He tried to bring his own hands up in defense, but his body wasn’t really responding to him at the moment. Everything hurt. As everything started to fade out into blackness, Jake’s last cohesive thought was how much it would suck to have the last image he ever saw being Tyler fucking Gordon’s face.

When Jake came to, it was to pain. He groaned, lifting one hand to his head - or, trying to, anyway. His hands didn’t respond, though, and he belatedly realized that his hands were cuffed behind him. Probably his own cuffs. He tried to move his legs experimentally, and found that they were held in place to the chair legs - felt like duct tape.

He forced his eyes open, blinking past the pain of having to see, taking stock of the situation. It seemed like he was in a metal storage unit, given the weird texture of the walls and the poor lighting.

Jake grimaced, checking the floor around him - there was nothing else around, just the chair - and himself, of course. Across the room, there was a roll of ducktape, along with… he wasn’t sure what it was, but it was shiny - possibly a knife? - on another chair.

He could work with that.

Jake knew how to dislocate his thumbs - courtesy of a very intense Rosa Diaz. After he’d been kidnapped by that Hoytsman lawyer guy a few years back, she had taught him how to get out of handcuffs.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to do a whole lot of good here, since the unfortunately familiar, itching stretch of ducktape on his wrists informed him that Gordon had taken preventative measures for that particular action.

Jake frowned, eyeing the knife again. Maybe he could just… he gave an experimental scoot.

And instantly almost fell on his face. He regained balance with a jerk, hands clenching around air in an automatic attempt to steady himself.

Still, he had moved. Only a little, but… Jake grimaced, then pushed the chair forward again, more carefully this time. Each jerky inch forward sent pain ricocheting through his skull, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to prevent himself from either throwing up or passing out from it.

When he finally opened his eyes again, after what felt like an agonizing, eternity, he saw that he was about a third of the way to the knife.

At least he could see that it was definitely a knife.

Cool. Cool cool cool cool.

Jake kept inching along resolutely - with any luck, the squad was already looking for him. As much as it sucked, at least he had gotten Gordon’s name out, and if he had to guess, his screaming probably gave a decent indication of him being injured.

Jake tried not to think of his right hand - he was relatively certain that at least one finger had been broken. At least the pain from his head seemed to outweigh all the others, and in a funny way made it more manageable. After all, he couldn’t feel the pain of his hands being jerked around, or his legs banging against the chair legs with each shove, if all he felt was agony in his head. It let him keep pushing forward - literally, in this case.

Jake reached the chair after what felt like an eternity, and the pain in his head had grown so splitting that he wanted to cry from it. Looking down, he could see the knife and ducktape sitting innocently on top of the chair. He’d made it. Now all he had to do was… figure this out.

Okay, so he just had to… cut the ducktape on his wrists. Then, he could dislocate his thumb and get out of the cuffs. Then cut his legs free. Seemed easy enough. He didn’t feel particularly confident, mostly because of how much his head hurt and he felt vaguely dizzy, but decided that he simply… didn’t have any other choice. It was escape or die - well, okay, maybe that was a bit melodramatic. But the point still stood. This was the only chance he could guarantee himself having.

Grimacing, Jake slowly pushed his chair in a circle - the screeching sound of the metal on concrete sent daggers piercing into his brain. By the time he managed to get turned around, he could barely see, the spots in his vision nauseating. He closed his eyes, not wanting to make it all worse - that did little to help, but he could pretend that it did.

Jake inched backwards, stretching his hands as far back as he could, ignoring the burn in his elbows at the bad positioning, finally grabbing onto the bladed edge of the knife. He let out a sigh of relief, sliding his hands down so that the blade was pressed up against the ducktape.

He began sawing away at it, doing his best not to let the blade slip - he couldn’t grab it by the handle, since that would put the blade too far away - since he’d prefer not to bleed further. Opening his eyes briefly, now that he was turned around, he could see the pool of blood where he had been sitting before, and the slow trail of it leading to where he was now. It was from the crash, if he had to guess. Blood had dripped onto his jacket, as well as the tops of his jeans, from what he assumed was the head injury. He let out a curse as the blade slipped, slicing into his left wrist, biting down on his lip in an attempt to stay in control. He kept holding the knife, not wanting to drop it, even as his attempting to shift it back made it dig, momentarily, deeper into his flesh.

The skin of his face pulled as he grimaced from the pain - probably from the dried blood on it, which Jake tried not to think too hard about either.

Why he wasn’t dead was beyond him, but Jake didn’t think about that either.

Honestly, he didn’t want to think about anything except how to get the fuck out of here.

When the knife finally slipped through the last bit of tape, he nearly cried from relief - he didn’t have the time to, though, and instead just slowly lowered the knife back down onto the chair as best he could.

Now was the fun part. He was dreading this.

Jake grabbed his left thumb, grimaced, and then switched hands - his right hand was already fucked up, and besides, he couldn’t get a good grip on his left thumb with it. He pushed on the joint, a small whine of pain escaping through gritted teeth as it popped out with a rather gross sound.

Jake pulled his hand free, bringing his left hand around - handcuff still attached to it - to his front to cradle it. He felt no small amount of relief to see that his wedding band was still on - it was a silly thing to think about in this situation, but he couldn't help but be slightly cheered by its presence. His right hand was more than a bit unpleasant to look at. It was caked in blood from the lacerations on his arm, which were still sluggishly dripping blood. His middle finger was clearly broken, and Jake grimaced as the sound of it snapping at the car played in his mind - he hoped that those few extra moments of transmission had been worth it. His thumb was hanging at an odd angle, and Jake steeled himself before pushing it back into place.

He didn’t scream this time - mostly because he didn’t dare. He had been here for a long time. Too long. It was likely that, since he was still alive, Gordon wanted him for something. And it must have taken him a good hour to inch over to here. He couldn’t waste time - he could scream from the pain later.

Jake picked up the knife with his left hand, cutting through the ducktape binding his legs with much more ease than he had the ones on his wrists. Blood from his wrist trailed down his hand as well, but thankfully it didn’t look too bad - he could worry about that later, too.

The moment he had his legs free, Jake stood. Or rather, tried to.

He instantly stumbled, barely managing to catch himself on the back of the chair. The knife clattered onto the ground, and he winced as the sound of it hitting the ground bounced around inside of his skull.

Jake took a few slow, deep breaths, before reaching down, picking up the knife - which had over time become slick with his own blood.

Taking another deep breath, and letting his weight rest on the back of the chair, he looked around the walls for the door. Of course, storage units rarely had exits from the indoors, but if he could at least find out which side was the door… maybe he could bang for help. Or, lie in wait and try to take Gordon down when he opened it.

Jake saw the edge of light running down along a piece of one wall, and stumbled over to it. He forced himself to crouch down, placing down the knife to try to pry the door up with his good hand. As he had expected, but feared, the door was firmly latched. He picked up the knife, deciding to sit down next to the door and wait. He considered standing, but judging by the way the world spun as he moved - whether from the likely concussion or from blood loss he wasn’t really sure anymore - he figured he was going to end up on the ground either way.

He leaned against the wall beside the door, resting his arms on his knees. He watched idly as rivulets of blood dripped down his hands and slid down the top of the knife’s edge, splatting onto the ground in front of him.

His head hurt. He closed his eyes, resting it backwards against the wall - the cool metal seemed to dull the pounding in his skull, and he relished in the reprieve. The unit let in sunlight through the slats running along the tops of the walls - but there was no way he’d even be able to fit his arm through there, let alone his entire body.

He was still stuck waiting.

Jake turned the knife over in his hands. The handle was no longer slick - instead, it was steadily turning sticky as his blood began to dry on it. He wondered if he should wipe down the blade, before mentally shaking his head - he didn’t dare do it physically - confused at himself. There was no reason to do that, logically.

But the sight of his blood on it… dripping - seemingly endlessly - down and coating the shiny metal with red… he just didn’t want to keep looking at it anymore.

Jake felt horrible, and the longer he sat, waiting, the more his body’s aches began to make themselves known. His head, his hand, his arms… but also his chest, which felt weirdly tight - he hadn’t even noticed that until just now, huh, but as soon as he did notice it he couldn’t ignore the pain, it making itself pesteringly known and dragging more agony from his body.

He sat there for… fuck, he didn’t know how long. He didn’t move much - he didn’t dare, since that pain in his chest probably meant something was broken. Instead, he watched as his arm’s bleeding slowed down further - it looked like he’d reaggravated it when he was trying to escape, and, now that he was sitting motionless, it was starting to congeal again.

Jake brought up his left hand - even though he put his thumb back in on his right, the middle finger was still broken - and scratched at his face. His fingers came away speckled in dried blood, which had caked onto his face at some point. He felt the sudden, irrational urge to peel off all of it - his fingers twitching with the urge to remove the suddenly painfully irritating sensation of the dried blood on his skin - but he didn’t dare. He wasn’t sure where on his head was the injury - or injuries - and he didn’t want to risk reopening it. He’d already lost so much blood.

Jake stared at the floor, counting blood drops. He got up to a few hundred before the found of footsteps sent him stumbling to his feet. He clutched the knife in his left hand, supporting his standing position by leaning his right side against the wall. His pain was momentarily swept away with adrenaline, although he knew that would be short-lived.

He waited with bated breath - it was quiet. The footsteps stopped, and then the door in front of him was shaking.

Jake pushed himself fully to his feet, knife clenched in the tightest grip he could manage. He couldn’t afford to fail, now. He’d be dead before the second swing.

But then the sound of a familiar voice, shouting “NYPD!” as the door lifted… and Jake didn’t move.

Holt practically leaped through the door, gun drawn - eyes scanning the room before landing on Jake. Some hint of an expression crossed his face, before it vanished.

“Oh, hey, dad. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Jake said simply. He could feel himself swaying, but couldn’t quite seem to make himself stop.

“Jacob,” Holt began, concern clear in his voice even by his standards, but whatever he was going to say, he never had the chance to finish.

Jake wasn’t aware of falling, just of Holt’s hands grabbing his shoulders, catching him and half-pulling him into his arms.

The sound of metal clattering on the ground was the only clue to Jake that he had dropped the knife - his hands were wet, again. His cuts had opened back up, he was pretty sure. He tried to get his feet back under him, but they felt like jelly, and wouldn’t go steady enough to stand.

“You are safe, Jacob.” Holt said, still supporting most of Jake’s weight. Jacob blinked, looking up at Holt, his head lolling back slightly. His adrenaline was fading, and with it the last of his consciousness - his head was starting to scream pain at him again, and he simply had no more energy.

“Oh, cool. Thanks for showing up, I thought I was gonna die.” Jake explained, feeling weirdly floaty - from the blood loss, he knew.

Holt’s expression flickered. “You will not die.” He said authoritatively, as if he could force Jake to stay alive by sheer will. Well, maybe he could, actually.

Jake would have nodded if he could move his head without wanting to scream. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

There was movement around them - other cops spilling into the room, and there was the faint sound of sirens in the background.

“Everything is fine, Jacob.” Holt said, still holding Jake upright - half-limp in his arms - and eyes scanning across Jake’s face - most likely checking for the source of the bleeding. “You are fine.”

“Is this you… trying to comfort me?” Jake asked suddenly, “With the words and the hugging and everything, I mean.”

“Hug...ging?” Holt asked slowly, as if he didn’t know the term.

“Yeah. It’s working,” Jake said. Speaking was getting tiring, but he kept going anyway - he didn’t want to stop, since he was pretty sure Holt would get worried if that happened.

“I see.” Holt said slowly, his hands tightening infinitesimally on Jake’s side, as if it would offer some additional amount of this clearly unfamiliar concept of comfort.

It did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Total request: _Ok so my request is Jake calls Captain Holt or Kevin or both of them dad, and then some criminal overhears and kidnaps Jake to get back at them._
> 
> i really got into this prompt, this ended up 3.5k words lol - it was going to be my 10th request of the month (november) but i got way too into it and didn't finish in time! oops :D
> 
> comments give me ~serotonin~


	2. Chapter 2

Holt was not the kind to ‘wish’. It simply was not something he did, both because of the inherently childish nature of it, and the simple fact that desiring something did not make it come to fruition.

However, he had to admit, he had perhaps… _hoped_ a different outcome than the ‘bust’ they were currently experiencing.

The suspect of the murder - Tyler Gordon - was not in the apartment as anticipated. While Holt was careful to conceal his disappointment, Detective Jacob Peralta was not quite as nuanced.

He’s not there.” Jake’s voice was clearly irritated.

“Yes, Mrs. Lebedev was just informing me that the man matching Gordon’s image had left a few hours ago, carrying a duffel bag. It appears we are too late.” Holt replied, as the old woman in question wandered off now that he had stopped speaking to her.

“Yeah, well,” Jake said, bitterness coating his tone, “It looks like it’s back to the drawing board.”

“Peralta, while it is disappointing to not have Mr. Gordon under our custody, these situations do occur.” Holt made direct eye contact, “There is no shame in not succeeding.”

Jake grimaced. “That’s because you always succeed.”

Holt was equal parts flattered - because he did have an exceptionally high clearance rate, that was correct - as well as concerned. Using terms like ‘always’ created mental absolutes that, when inevitably revealed to be false, would cause feelings of betrayal for something broken that had never been agreed to in the first place.

“Be careful not to put me on a pedestal, Peralta.” Holt said strictly, “It will not end well.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake lifted his hands, “It’s fine. I get it, back to work. Thanks for the pep talk, dad.”

“Certainly, Peralta.” Holt replied.

He was aware Peralta would often slip ‘dad’, or other parental terms, into his vocabulary, and, while he would admit to being pleased by taking on that role for Peralta - especially since his actual father did not seem to fill the title very well, if at all - he doubted that Jake was even aware of it more often than not.

Whether that made Holt feel better or worse about it, he wasn’t entirely sure. It would perhaps serve him to complete some introspection later on - he made a mental note to include an allotted time for it in his schedule that evening - but, for the meantime, he waved Peralta off to head back to the precinct.

It seemed likely that Tyler Gordon would no longer be using his name - perhaps an alias, or hard cash - assuming he had any sort of sense.

Up until now, Gordon had seemed to show a complete lack of even slight intelligence. But his leaving the complex indicated a small amount of brains after all - much to Holt’s irritation.

Holt continued monitoring the situation, when his radio crackled to life on his shoulder.

Jake’s voice came through. The first thing Holt noticed was that he sounded out of breath. The second, was the tone of voice - it was thick with pain, the words being practically dragged out of him.

“Collision on Winston Street, suspect Tyler Gordon invo-” There was the sound of something slamming down, hard, and Jake’s words cut off into a choked-off scream.

The radio was still transmitting, but without sound coming through - save for the faintness that may have been crunching glass.

Holt wondered - with sudden, deep fear - if Jake was dead.

He should have been relieved when he heard Jake’s voice again, but instead, if anything, his blood ran colder.

A scream so loud, so visceral, that it turned into an electronic screech of feedback - the radio unable to transmit it properly - tore its way out of what was most certainly Jake’s throat.

Holt didn’t realize he was running until he was at his car, pulling the door open with so much vigor that, had he been Sargent Jerffords, he would’ve ripped the door off its hinges entirely. He tore down the street - sirens on, of course - making it the scant few blocks to where Winston Street split off in either direction.

Holt didn’t hesitate - the way back to the precinct was to the left - and made a hard left, cutting across a few lanes and slamming down on the gas.

He skidded to a stop as he came up towards what was certainly Jake’s car. It was crashed on the side of the street, half-visible due to its being partially down a ditch beside the road.

Holt stepped out, drawing his gun, and approached the vehicle.

The driver’s door was open, and the car was empty. Looking down, Holt could see a trail of blood leading up to the edge of the asphalt of the road.

The right side of the car was completely smashed in from the side - it looked like Jake had been T-boned, except, of course, there was no intersection in the immediate vicinity. Massive patches of paint transfer - white - were coating the side of the vehicle, and bits of rubber scattered across the ground indicated that a tire had been damaged.

Holt was disappointed to find that it was Jake’s vehicle that had sustained that damage - he would have preferred if it had been the suspect’s - the _kidnapper’s_ , he corrected coldly - if only because it would have limited his travel distance.

He called it in - a missing cop, Tyler Gordon prime suspect, the crime scene in question directly in front of him, a white vehicle with front left damage and black paint transfer - and then moved back to the driver’s side.

He felt an odd stab of pain as he noted Jake’s radio lying on the side of the driver’s seat, which only grew more concerned as he noticed the drying blood - difficult to see on the black plastic - coating it.

Oddly, he hadn’t taken that close of a look at the driver’s side at first - he had simply noted the lack of a Jacob Peralta and moved on. Looking at it again, however, he was struck by the fact that he could have so completely missed the blood.

Blood on the steering wheel. Blood on the radio. Blood, still dripping, off of a piece of jagged, crunched car. Blood spilling onto the floor of the car, seeping into the carpet. Blood on the headrest. Blood on the seatbelt. The trail of blood leading up to the road was, without a doubt, Jake’s.

So much _fucking_ blood.

Holt was rarely disposed to curse.

He desperately wanted to now.

Holt closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath - he was not in the position to lose decorum, not right now. Not when Peralta was missing. Likely kidnapped. Definitely hurt. Possibly dead.

He, somehow, doubted that very much - Jake was a bit too resourceful to just up and die, especially given the scant information he had provided. If Tyler Gordon was the perpetrator - and Holt was inclined to believe Jake on that front - then it was likely a bid for a bargaining chip.

Whether or not he had injured Peralta more than anticipated, however, Holt wasn’t sure.

The only way to find out, he supposed, was to find Gordon and… _ask_ him.

By the time Holt made it back to the precinct, the news had already spread. Diaz was slamming her keyboard onto the table repeatedly - most likely trying to get whatever her computer was doing to do it faster - while Boyle and Jeffords were currently buried in a stack of every single piece of information they had on Gordon. Santiago, meanwhile, was, in an uncharacteristic display, not doing anything at all. Instead, she was sitting, watching her computer screen - completely still, save for her twisting her wedding ring on her finger.

All of them looked up as Holt entered, those that were sitting rising to their feet.

“Sir! Did Jake-?” Boyle began, but Holt held up a hand.

He had to take charge, now. It was his job - Captain the team. Even - no, _especially_ when they were down a member.

“Jeffords, Boyle, stay on file duty. Look for any potential aliases. I have already issued an alert for the vehicle, and for if Gordon tries to use any of his cards. Diaz, you are on surveillance. Try to track the suspect’s vehicle and see where it goes. Santiago,” Holt paused. She was staring at him, still twisting her ring around her finger.

Holt considered for a moment. “Santiago, I need you working surveillance with Diaz. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes”es rang out, followed by the bustle of work.

Santiago sat back down into her chair, rolling it over to Diaz. Holt noticed that Diaz had seemed to calm down somewhat, no longer slamming her keyboard, and instead just aggressively typing on it while Santiago murmured something to her, pointing a finger at the screen.

Distracting Santiago would be good - without one member, the team’s structure was tenuous at best. If Santiago was given the room to react to the situation, the precinct was sure to dissolve into chaos. And, with its dissolution, so too would Peralta’s chances of survival.

Holt went into his office - giving the appearance of normalcy, even if nothing about this was. His role as the Captain was to lead by example, and he was going to do his job.

He watched the clock tick by, refreshing the page and checking in on the BOLO status constantly - without a single thing changing, of course.

Nothing happened, until it did.

There was a beep, and then his screen lit up. Tyler Gordon had used his credit card at a coffee shop.

It was too obvious. Too intentional.

This was clearly something nefarious.

Holt did not care. He had taken down the Disco Strangler, after all - what was Tyler Gordon to that? Well, Holt admitted, he was someone who currently knew the whereabouts about one of his detectives.

That made him very important, indeed.

Holt reentered the bullpen, asking for Diaz and Boyle to accompany him.

Santiago was already standing, an objection written across her face. He could see she was about to demand she come with - and, Holt knew, she would be far too skilled at making her point.

So, instead, Holt added, “Jeffords, Santiago, I need you both to stay here. I want you both on the radio - Jeffords, monitor for additional card usage. Santiago, keep looking for the car’s whereabouts.”

“But-” Santiago began, still clearly intent on objecting.

“That is an order, Detective!” Holt said sharply, and while the old Amy would have wilted immediately, she had grown a lot since he’d first become Captain, and she stood her ground.

“I should come with-”

Holt gestured for Boyle and Diaz to go ahead, before facing her head-on. He was aware of his face twitching to reveal some of his worry.

“Santiago, Gordon is clearly doing some sort of play here. It is likely he is distracting us, while Jacob is… somewhere else. Now, while Diaz and Boyle get him here to bring him to justice, you are going to be helping find Peralta. Alright?”

Amy hesitated for a moment longer, before nodding. “Yes, sir.”

She sat back down at Diaz’s computer, resuming her typing. Jeffords kept poring through the files, desire to find something of use evident in the way his brow was furrowed so deeply it practically concealed his eyes entirely.

Holt found he didn’t know what to do - one of the consequences of going into management was the lack of _action_. He had never felt its absence so strongly as he had in that moment, and he found himself making a pot of coffee if only for something to do.

He found he did not care for this situation in the slightest - of course, there was other work he was supposed to be doing today, but he wasn’t going to give even a modicum of attention to any case other than the one unfolding right in front of him.

He had just poured himself a cup of coffee - and convinced himself that simply handing a cup to Santiago would be much too obvious, the indirect method of the coffee simply… being there would be enough - when Boyle informed him via radio that Gordon was arrested, and being brought in.

And that he hadn’t asked for a lawyer.

Holt would have normally scoffed at that - although lawyers were not to his taste, anyone, innocent or guilty, who refused one was incompetent, simple as that - he was far too grateful, and suspicious, to be amused by the situation.

Santiago looked up, giving him a look - her emotions were running rampant across her face, and, once again, he found himself refusing her request before she’d even spoken it.

“You cannot interrogate him, Santiago. Stay on the car, it’s our best chance of finding Peralta.”

“No, forcing it out of that fucker is!” Santiago snapped back - he was mildly surprised by her cursing, but supposed that the situation warranted it.

Holt privately agreed, but, unfortunately, couldn’t endorse it. Perhaps if it was still the ‘80s, or if they were both white men, they would be able to get away with it. As it currently stood, however, there was no option other than doing things the legal route.

Unfortunately.

Some of Holt’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Santiago, with a groan of exasperation, turned back to her computer. She was making progress, that much he could see - it appeared as if Gordon’s car had been more damaged than he had anticipated, if the smoke drifting up from the grainy footage on the screen was any indication.

Gordon was brought in in record speed, and, surprisingly, didn’t look too bad for wear, considering Diaz had been the one to arrest him - and given how intensely loyal she was to the 99.

Holt entered the interrogation room, and Rosa stood. She spared one last, withering glance to Gordon - who sat there with a shit-eating grin on his face that only looked a little strained - before leaving, letting the door slam shut after her.

Holt fixed Gordon with an impassive look, taking note of the man, He was relaxed, but overly so - it was an act.

He was intending to give the relaxed impression. In truth, he was nervous - and for good reason. He was playing a game, and making the most dangerous move. Waiting to see if the cards would fall where he had planned was all he could do, now.

Holt sat down across from Gordon, who was watching him with that same, irritating grin. He was struck with the sudden urge to do this the way Santiago had suggested - he could erase the evidence and blame Scully for trying to record a food show or something - but only the last _shred_ of self-control prevented him from doing just that.

“Tyler Gordon.”

“Captain Holt.” Tyler replied, mimicking his cadence.

“You know why you are here, I trust?”

“You guys think I killed someone.” Tyler shrugged, “I didn’t.”

“We have all the evidence to convict you. That is hardly of import at the moment, you are going to jail regardless. What does concern me, at this moment,” Holt leaned forward - Gordon resisting the urge to lean back, smile still wide but strained, “You kidnapped an officer. One of _my_ officers.” Holt allowed his head to tilt slightly. “I do not take that lightly, you understand.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gordon tried, but Holt was already shaking his head.

“Do not play this with me, I have neither the patience nor the time. I assume you did not intend to kill my officer. However, given the blood loss evident in the vehicle, it is more than likely that he _will_ die.”

Ah, Gordon’s smile was turning a bit sour, now. It looks like Holt had hit him with something.

“Now, you can go down for the murder of one person, or you can go down for the murder of two. One of whom is a police officer. Your choice.”

For a brief moment, Holt thought that perhaps, _perhaps_ , he had misjudged Gordon’s intellect - that it had not been a trap set to get him brought here, but rather his own incompetence.

But then, Tyler Gordon’s smile turned into a smirk, and he leaned forward to mirror Holt’s posture.

“I’m aware of your little cop’s predicament. Poor fucker, his head got bashed halfway to hell by that steering wheel.” He made a face, “Of course, that’s what happens when someone slams it down a few times, but, hey. Shit happens.”

“Where is Peralta?” Holt asked, the slightest hint of a snarl making its way into his tone.

“Look, you don’t need to pretend. I know the cop’s your ‘son’,” Gordon used air quotes. “And I just wanted to let you know that he’s going to die. He’ll be dead before night, anyway. And you won’t find him by then, so…” He shrugged, then flinched as Holt slammed his hands down onto the table.

“ _Where_. _Is._ _He._.”

Gordon just shrugged. “Does it matter? He’ll be dead by the time you get there regardless.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t mind telling me where.” Holt found himself hoping that was true, anyway. After all, how else could he avoid pulling out his gun and shooting this man between the eyes right now? With self-control that was how.

Holt found himself at a complete dearth of it at the moment.

Gordon hesitated, before answering, in a hefty snark, “It’s more fun this way.”

The hesitation, though, gave him away. That alone was enough to keep Holt from completely losing his calmness.

“Here’s the deal,” Gordon said, “I walk. Full immunity from everything. In exchange, I tell you where you can find your kid’s corpse. Give him a proper burial and all that.”

Holt narrowed his eyes. Then, shrugging. “Jacob wouldn’t care about his funeral - he’s said so long as he could play ‘that meme song’ he’d be fine with it.” He was lying, completely and totally so, he had no idea what Peralta’s funeral plans were, or even if he had a will, but Gordon didn’t know that.

Besides, Jacob wasn’t going to die. They were going to find him in time.

Please, let them find him in time. The wish - yes, it was a wish - went by so quickly through his mind, he barely had a chance to notice it’s desperation.

Gordon sat back. “Looks like we’re at an impasse, then.”

Holt opened his mouth, about to respond, when the door opened forcefully, slamming into the wall as its hinges wrenched back - Santiago bursting through the doorway.

“Captain, we’ve got it. Storage facility, the car drove inside.”

Holt turned to Gordon, who looked distinctly less snarky, now - he looked pallid. The cards were falling, indeed, but not in his favor.

“Which number.”

“I don’t-”

“Which number?” Holt shouted, slamming his fist down with as much strength as he could muster. “Or I will make sure you never see the outside of a prison again.”

Gordon didn’t reply. He definitely looked scared, now - Holt would have felt a surge of sickening vindication at that, but he had much more important things on his mind.

“I don’t have time for this.” Holt snapped, “Santiago, with me.”

“Hey! Hey!” Gordon called after them, but his words fell on deaf ears.

The entire team - well, himself, Jeffords, Santiago, Diaz, and Boyle anyway. Scully and Hitchcock, he was relatively certain, had no idea anything was happening whatsoever - pulled to the storage facility - one of those pay-cash storage lots that were a bit too sketchy for comfort.

The team spilled out, splitting up - a dozen or so backup officers accompanying them - the schematics of the lots memorized on the way.

Holt made eye contact with Diaz, who nodded once, shortly, before virtually attaching herself to Santiago’s side.

Holt hoped that Jacob was alive, but he knew enough to be pragmatic about the situation. If they found Peralta… well, dead, then it would be best for Santiago not to make that discovery alone.

As it turned out, simply following the trail of blood was not a particularly effective option - since the concrete floor was virtually coated in various colored, sticky substances.

Each ticking moment felt like a moment closer to finding Peralta dead. Holt did not want to lose any of his subordinates, but the idea of it being Jacob… he had to admit, it hit a little harder to home. It was only a natural consequence, considering how much he cared for the young man - he was for all rights, like a son to him.

Ironic, since he and Kevin had both agreed against children early into their knowing one another. Yet, somehow, Jacob had managed to sneak his way into his affections - and Kevin’s, to a long-suffering extent - and had firmly remained there.

Holt did not want Santiago to see Jacob’s corpse. He realized, as he turned another corner to find no vehicle in sight, and no blood, that he did not want to see Jacob dead, either.

But the urge to turn and stop looking never crossed his mind - it would be ridiculous to do so. Holt would rather find him dead than do nothing and seal his fate.

He turned another corner, and - much to his own embarrassment - took a misstep as he saw the white vehicle - a Jeep, ugh - parked haphazardly in front of a couple of storage boxes.

Holt radio-ed it in, before checking the ground. One of the bins had a rather distinctive trail of red, and he reached down, grabbing the bottom of the door - it had a simple bolt-latch that he undid - and pulled it up.

He drew his gun, entering with a standard, “NYPD!” Just in case it was the wrong bin. He hoped that it was the correct one. It was the only option he would accept.

What he did not expect to see, however, was to see Jacob, standing not two feet from him.

What he first noticed was the knife, clutched in a grip that looked so weak a breeze could knock it away. It was coated in blood, and - for one odd, irrational moment, Holt was under the impression that Jacob was wearing red gloves.

Except, of course, he was not. No, he was veritably coated in blood.

Holt lowered his gun.

“Oh, hey, dad. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Jake said, voice sounding vaguely faint. He was swaying heavily, one of his hands seeming to support most of his weight against the metal wall beside him.

“Jacob,” Holt began, fully intending on getting him to sit down.

Instead, Jacob decided to head towards the floor in a more direct way. Holt barely caught him - Jacob’s body nearly completely limp - and tried to hold him in place. If he hit the floor, it might damage something - well, damage something more.

The knife clutched in Jacob’s hand hit the ground with a clang, and Holt kicked it away further into the unit, barely sparing it a glance. His priority was Jacob - who, although he was not already dead as Gordon had stated, seemed to be more than halfway to that point.

“You are safe, Jacob.” Holt informed, keeping his eyes on Peralta’s face, worry creasing his brow as he watched blood drip sluggishly down the side of his face. If he was still bleeding after all this time… well. Holt swallowed down his concern.

“Oh, cool. Thanks for showing up.” Jacob said, head lolling slightly, “I thought I was gonna die.”

Holt shook his head, “You will not die.”

Of course, he didn’t actually know that for a fact - what he did know, however, was that Jacob was alive now. And, now that Jacob was with him, death was simply not an option.

Holt had surpassed many obstacles in his life. What was death but one more? It couldn’t be more difficult than a Commissioner Wench, after all.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Jacob replied - and, was it Holt’s nerves, or was his voice sounding more slurred, less cognisant?

Holt stayed carefully in place as more officers began arriving - along with EMS.

Jacob seemed confused by the siren - which only caused Holt’s concern to grow.

“Everything is fine, Jacob. You are fine.” he studied Jacob’s face, trying to tell if he was truly becoming less responsive or if he was allowing his fear to cause delusion.

“Is this you… trying to comfort me?” Jake asked, sounding tiredly curious, “With the words and the hugging and everything, I mean.”

“Hug...ging?” That was not what Holt had expected.

“Yeah. It’s working.” Jacob’s eyes were half-closed, but a small grin - a phantom of his normal beaming one, but still there - danced across his bloody face. Bits of dried blood flaked off of his face as he did so.

“I see.” Holt said, allowing his grip to tighten. Perhaps while Jacob did not seem to comprehend the fact that, should he stop holding him, he would certainly collapse and injure himself - not that Holt was going to do that, of course - if it comforted Jacob to think of it as a hug… well, Holt was not going to object to that perception.

His radio crackled, and Diaz's voice came over the radio - he could hear Santiago shouting something behind her.

"Is he alive?" "-fuck you let me-" "Captain?" "-I need to see-"

"Jacob is alive." Holt replied, "Emergency services will be taking him shortly."

There was static, and then Diaz's voice - this time without Santiago in the background. "She's headed your way." Her voice was gruff, but there was a definite note of relief to it.

"Thank you, Diaz." Holt replied, gesturing over the EMS, who were bringing over a gurney with no small amount of rush. He let Jacob go with no small amount of anxiety - out of his hands, now, now he could not guarantee his wellbeing. Of course, Holt knew that was an irrational thought, but the concern was still there, for some, inexplicable reason.

The EMS had barely gotten Jacob down when there was a small commotion at the end of the hallway.

He heard the sound of sprinting before he even saw Santiago, who rounded a corner in a sprint and nearly bowled over a few random officers - the others getting smart and stepping out of her way lest she knock them down.

"Santiago-" Holt began, but she ignored him entirely, reaching Jacob's side and nearly slamming into the gurney.

"Jake!" She reached out to take his hand, before noting his fingers' mangled state - her face flashing with pain - and instead opted for his shoulder. "Jake, are you oka- I mean, obviously not, but, are- I was so worried, and," She was speaking quickly, and Jake's weak grin grew at that.

He opened his eyes - with great effort, it seemed - and raised an eyebrow - clearly attempting to hide a wince as he did. "Hey, Ames."

She didn't look particularly relieved, and instead started walking as the EMTs kept moving.

Holt very much wanted to be able to go along as well - Jacob held a son figure for him, and, aside, he was concerned for his well-being. However, a Captain's job was not done until the scene is taken care of.

So, regretfully, he turned back to the unit, allowing himself to appraise the situation - distaste coloring his gaze as he noted the blood splattering across the floor.

He would leave Jacob in the capable hands of Amy Santiago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holt chapter, as requested! this one's kinda long, lmao - also if jake's injuries seem more serious here, it's because jake's incapable of taking care of himself or even understanding how hurt he gets :)
> 
> i like writing holt, he's fun - that said i felt like he came off a bit overemotional in this fic compared to some of my other ones? but i figured that since he was a bit of a mess during the dognapping episode, it fits his character :D
> 
> comments are great!!! <3


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